


The Silence

by bastilas



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Getting Together, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Unreliable Narrator, but also Healing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-10-30 02:55:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17820473
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bastilas/pseuds/bastilas
Summary: Four months have passed since golden light poured into Percival Graves' line of sight and he was saved from what he thought to be an eternal sentence of living in darkness. Meanwhile, Newt, having suffered terrible nightmares of Grindelwald in Graves' body torturing him with electricity, is confronted with his cause of terror.





	The Silence

**Author's Note:**

> So between possibly having to find another job and being so sick for two months that I lost ten pounds, I wrote this as a way to distract myself from stress. I'm actually somewhat proud of it. It totally ignores the crimes of Grindelwald happened.
> 
> Also, I listened to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8KfwXac4ftI) song the entire time while writing this and even named this fic after it. I love it to pieces and recommend listening to it while reading :)
> 
> and big thank you to my friend mary who had to put up with terrible grammar while editing this with me <3
> 
> Enjoy!

Every day that's passed since his rescue has been an exercise in patience and endurance. Some days are worse than others. This day, for one, has yet to reveal what it'll be.

Rays of golden light cast long shadows, warming frost that crept in overnight. Already, snow turns into puddles beneath his feet, soaking through the smooth leather of his boots as he plods through slush on the sidewalk. No-majs tend to leave a wide space between him and them due to his intimidating presence, but today he's dressed simply; no fancy suit with sharp angular lines and a dark coat to match.

Instead, a heavy and simple brown corduroy coat sits heavy and warm on his shoulders, blocking out a cool breeze. Lately, he's found the cold sinks into his bones and leaves him chilled throughout the entire day unlike it ever did prior to his month of isolation at Grindelwald's hands. He'd much rather dress comfortably than be reminded of that dark time period.

It hardly matters though. The auror positioned outside Woolworth gives him a cheery "Goodmorning, Sir." Nodding as she opens the door. Perhaps she's brightened by the warming of the weather.

He remembers to smile back and thank her in return, stepping inside to the sprawling hall of MACUSA. As always, witches and wizards rush through the hall, a din of chatter audible. Papers go flying above Percival's head to their respective departments and he'd almost be calmed by the familiar commotion if not for the stares that linger on him for seconds too long.

Two weeks ago he returned to work after rigorous examining from both health professionals and aurors alike. Investigations concluded he played no part in Grindelwald's plan within a day, but he certainly didn't have the same luck when it came to the healers.

_"Mentally unstable. Malnourished. Traumatized. If you're hoping for his return to work, it won't be happening soon."_

He doesn't remember much from his first couple weeks in the hospital aside from that snippet of information he overheard the head healer report to Picquery as they thought he slept. That, and the blank white ceiling above him are rooted in his mind.

There had also been the newspaper beside his bed with the title " _Newt Scamander Returns Home_ " splashed across it in a bold heading. Percival took in the photo beneath the headline greedily; the man was the reason he'd been found, after all. Scamander had been hunched in on himself, turning away from the flashing of cameras and then gave a jump when a flash went off in front of his face. Not quite the triumphant return he deserved, Percival had thought, setting the paper down once his tremors started up again.

He had, eventually, healed from his ordeal, of course. Not that it stopped everyone from examining him as if searching for scars and other reminders of his stay in that dark, secluded room for a month. The first few days back were unbearable. His skin crawled, like he felt each and every gaze roaming over his body.

But he's used to it now. _Just push them off his mind and focus on something else_ — it's what he does when his mind drifts back to the room during meetings, or when Grindelwald's name is mentioned. It works well enough.

He steps onto the elevator. "Morning, Red," he greets.

Red had gotten over the surprise of his name being used by the third day of Percival's return. Before, it was always, "Major Investigations Department," said with a frown and no eye contact.

"Morning, Director Graves. Major Investigations?"

"No, actually. Just the Investigations department."

"Got it," Red says, and pulls the lever.

The two floors are right beside each other, separated by only a stairway up or down, but energy is scarce for him these days, and he'd neglected to grab a coffee before he left for work. Queenie always brews a dark roast to perfection. That, and there's another Goldstein he needs to have a conversation with.

The lift stops on his floor and he thanks Red again. He slips his coat off, carrying it in his arms as he makes his way through a maze of desks, nodding and occasionally giving a hesitant smile as junior and senior aurors greet him. He allows his shoulders to un-tense as he reaches the end of the room and heads down a hall full of private offices.

Ever since Tina's assistance with capturing Grindelwald, she'd been promoted and given her own private office. Percival let a faint feeling, perhaps close to pride, take over him.

Then, he picks up on the voices. One is Tina's – angry and high pitched like it always is when she's upset. But the other. He can't place it. British and soft, but also frantic.

"What do you mean you _forgot_?! You can't just forget something like that, Newt!"

"Yes, well, I've been quite busy recently. It slipped my mind."

Tina sighs so heavily Percival can hear it and there's a shuffling noise of papers.

Ah, that's the British voice. Newt Scamander. The man who saw through Grindelwald's façade when nobody else thought their Director just may be slightly off – a touch too harsh and brusque.

Percival means to step forward and knock on the wall to alert them of his presence, but it's too late. Scamander comes rushing out of Tina's office, eyes set downward, turns, and runs right into Percival's body, setting him off-balance and grasping at the wall before he can fall to the floor.

Scamander grabs his arm, steadying him. "I'm so sorry." He looks up at Percival's face. "I—" a sharp inhale is taken as his eyes widen. Recognition passes over his features. He takes a large step backwards, his mouth working to form words but all that he can manage is to breathe in and out quickly, eyes still wide. Like a panicked animal.

Without another word, he turns the other way and rushes down the hall.

Percival can only watch his retreating form with furrowed eyebrows. Tina peaks out of her office, only to catch a glimpse of Scamander before he disappears around the corner. She turns her head in Percival's direction, eyebrows also drawn together.

"Mr. Graves?" Surprise colours her face, then is smothered out as quickly as it came. "What was that about?"

"I- I don't know."

\- ❊ -

The clock strikes five. The workday, officially, is over. Not that Percival usually leaves his office before six. The energy he started the day with is long gone — along with his will to write another word on this damned report. He thinks about walking home, takes one look at his hand holding his pen, and decides otherwise. It's shaking again.

He's not had a single crumb to eat all day and the thought of being on his own in the dark of night is less than appealing.

He lets out a deep breath, dropping the pen on his desk with a clack before he puts his head in his hands, massaging his temples. Try as he might, the encounter with Scamander that morning won't leave his mind alone. It plays repeatedly in a never-ending cycle; his sharp inhale and wide eyes burned into his memory like a wound upon his mind unwilling to heal. Scamander had been scared. No, _terrified_. Of what? Of Percival is the obvious answer. But _why_? What about himself warrants Scamander acting as though he'd seen a ghost?

Perhaps he could ask Tina tomorrow. But– no. She may not know, and Percival would rather not pose such an odd question to her.

It's too bad. Percival thought about Scamander sometimes. How he, a wayward magizooligist, managed to not only save Percival (indirectly), but all of New York and perhaps the entire wizarding community. All because he couldn't stand by and let an innocent life be taken.

It’s no matter. Perhaps it's for the best they'll never truly meet – Percival has this image of a hero in his head and he’s well aware getting to know the man beneath the image takes away the glamour.

He grabs his coffee, downing the rest before picking up his pen and resuming the report, trying his damnedest to hide the shake in his handwriting.

\- ❊ -

The world is coming to life. Puddles occupy the streets and sidewalks everywhere, mud is impossible to avoid, but it's worth it to once again hear birds chirping as he walks to work. Buds appear along tree branches, the sun gives off a warm glow. For all intents and purposes, he should carry the same skip in his step, the same lightness in everyone's smiles. But he doesn't. Each day becomes more difficult as his energy wanes. Increasingly, it's near impossible to make it to the end of the day without wanting to sleep right then and there at his desk.

A week has passed since the incident with Scamander. While work itself has been uneventful, for which he is grateful, life at home isn't sailing smoothly.

His heart still races if there isn't a candle or lamp lit before he sleeps, and each time a door shuts behind him he has to tell himself over and over that it'll open again. It's not locked, and he's not trapped. It isn't happening again.

At least people have yet to notice the fear that plagues him, resting just under his skin, ready to jump out at the first sight of a shadow.

Yes, for that he's thankful.

Counting blessings has become a new habit, in fact. A month spent in a dark room on his own left him a lot of time to tally them up, and each day he finds himself adding another few to a mental list. Like for one – he can control the door to his office. It's left open a crack, as it always has been since his return. It's a luxury he'd never, ever think about before Grindelwald.

Then a knock sounds from said door. He looks up from his report. "Come in."

The door pushes inward, revealing Tina, who closes the door behind her – but not all the way – there's still a crack. Percival sits back in his chair and waves in a motion for Tina to take a seat.

"Oh, there's no need, Mr. Graves. This isn't a work related matter."

He raises his eyebrow.

"Well, not really." She gives a hesitant smile. "It's just– we're going out for drinks tonight. The senior aurors. And I thought you may like to join us?" Her dark eyes shine with intent, like his response is truly important to her.

He doesn't quite know what to say. The last time he'd been out for drinks with co-workers must've been his early thirties — and the long overtime hours spent drinking with Picquery hardly count. Somewhere along the line work took precedence over socializing. A switch he never should've let happen; look at where it's gotten him now.

"Alright," he agrees.

Tina's face lights up into a grin. "Perfect. It's the speakeasy on 13th. You know it?"

"Tina, I may be enamoured with work, but I'm not socially inept. Of course I've been there." He keeps his face bare of any emotions purposefully.

Her face goes pale and he can't help but burst out into a smile. "I'm joking with you. Yes, I'll go. I'll just..." he looks to the mountain of papers on his desk. "I'll work my way through these first."

"Of course. And don't feel pressured – it's okay if you show up a bit late."

"Sounds good, Tina."

She nods. "We'll see you tonight." She takes her exit, leaving the door ajar behind her.

The corner of his lip tugs up against his will. Perhaps his efforts to appear more approachable are bearing fruit. It's the first milestone of progress he's made since he's returned, and he intends to celebrate it well tonight.

\- ❊ -

The Patterson House is a newer bar exclusive to wizards and witches. The joke is that it works the same as MACUSA — it appears as a no-maj café on the outside — but with the know-how, a speakeasy hides in plain sight. And, unlike most drinking establishments around, the tiled floors gleam in the late evening sun, wooden tabletops are polished to perfection, and there are windows. In other words – it's above ground, airy, and light. Just what Percival appreciates.

He shrugs his jacket off, welcoming the sound of laughter and chatter accompanied by the occasional excited raised voice. The bodies in the room warm it above room temperature but Percival doesn't mind. His brief jaunt from Woolworth to The Patterson House has left his hands and feet chilled.

Rubbing his hands together, he looks over tables with people crowded around them only to find Tina and the rest of his aurors at the back of the room, tables jammed together and drinks in front of them. He walks toward them.

Reese is the first to notice him when he looks up from his drink. "Looks like I owe you five." He laughs, jabbing Clearwater, who sits beside him, with his elbow. She, too, looks up and smiles at Percival.

"Owes you five for what?" He can guess, but sometimes flustering his aurors can be entertaining.

Clearwater stutters, face heating up, but Reese has no such shame.

"We bet on if you'd show or not! I figured you'd stay at the office all day."

"Mm," he says. "Almost did, too. Maybe I should've. You wouldn't be short five."

Reese gives a choked laugh, gazing at Percival in wonder. A joke leaving Percival's mouth is about as uncommon as Picquery deciding she wants to miss a day of work. (Which is never).

"Mr. Graves!" He turns and looks to Tina, who's sat closer to the end of the table. She pats the seat beside her, so Percival nods at Reese and Clearwater before pulling out the chair beside Tina. A couple other seats toward the end of the table remain empty and Percival takes a quick headcount of the table, wondering who isn't present.

However, it looks as though all aurors are present but for one. And that's because they're sick.

"Anyone else coming?" He asks. He takes a brief look at the drink menu then pushes it away, already knowing what he wants.

"I invited Queenie and Newt. Figured Newt could use some social time with people other than us. I know he's not fond of aurors but..." Tina trails off, then picks up a smile Percival knows is fake. "It always nice to share a drink with friends, right?"

Percival bites the inside of his lip but nods, considering Scamander's reaction to him the week previous. Could this dislike for aurors be the cause? Maybe he thought Percival would disapprove of his crazy menagerie of creatures and try to take them?

A waitress comes by, taking him from his musing.

"Whiskey, please."

"Of course." She smiles. "I'll be right back with that."

Percival nods his thanks. Beside him, Tina's engaged in a lively conversation with Whitehall across the table about his five children. Percival hadn't even been aware he had one child. And, soon enough, he's dragged into the conversation, receiving the usual questions. _Are you seeing anyone special? How's your family? Do you want to be married someday?_ It's fine and all, but he'd grown tired of answering such things years ago, simply because his answers depress. They're uninteresting; because, _no_ , there's no one special. Little of his family remains, and maybe he wants to be married, who knows?

But, aside from the questions, he rather enjoys hearing stories from his aurors or hearing about their families. He's well on his second drink by the time Queenie walks in, golden hair in perfect curls and outfitted in a sky blue coat and dress. She's smiling, as she usually does, but it doesn't reach her eyes. She takes a seat.

"Hey Teenie," she greats. "Mr. Whitehall, Mr. Graves."

"Queenie, where is Newt?" Tina asks.

The smile she's been holding up drops for a second before it twitches back to life. "Oh, he's at home. Said there's something about his creatures he needed to take care of. And you know him, he's not the most social fella..."

There's something off here.

Queenie's eyes dart to Percival, eyes widening, but they quickly fall back on Tina. "Say, Teenie and I need to go spend some girl time. We'll be right back guys."

Queenie stands, setting her purse down, then heads to the bathroom, looking behind to make sure Tina is following her.

"Girl things?" Whitehall asks. "Since when has Tina been into _girly_ things?"

Percival shrugs. Like he'd know. He hadn't even been aware of Whitehall's five kids before meeting everyone at the bar tonight. And besides, Queenie made up the excuse. Why? Percival doesn't know exactly — but he's willing to bet it's about Scamander.

"So, you've caught up on all your work now?" Whitehall asks, but Percival's mind is off in the clouds. He nods, looking to where Tina and Queenie went before pushing his chair back.

"I'm going to grab another drink from the bar. I'll be right back."

Whitehall looks exasperated being left with empty chairs all to his left, but nods, his focus quickly taken by the conversation happening beside him.

\- ❊ -

Strictly speaking, he isn't supposed to use his abilities against civilians or one of his own, but his own curiosity overrides any laws or rules put in place. Something about the situation is wrong and he intends to find out, even if it's morally wrong to do so. He makes his way down the narrow hall to the bathrooms, on alert for the Goldstein's voices, stopping outside the women's room.

He can hear the faint sound of speaking but not enough to make out anything clearly. No matter. He takes out his wand and casts a spell to hear them. It's as if Tina and Queenie are speaking directly into his ear.

"You're sure it has to do with him?" Tina's voice comes.

"I'm sure. It's hard to see inside his mind, but I saw him. Flashes accompanied by pure panic. I think it intensified while he was in Britain and it's only gotten worse since coming back here. I think it reminds him of it." Queenie explains.

"So what do we do about it?"

There's a silence for a couple of seconds.

"I don't know. He's obviously aware that there's no danger present, so I don't think exposing him to what's making him afraid will do anything. That's why I told him not to come tonight once you told me Graves was here."

Oh. So it _does_ have to do with him specifically.

"I'll ask around on Monday. Someone has to know how to help him, I'm sure. It's just a matter of tracking down the right help."

"Okay," Queenie says. "Sounds like a plan. Now let's get back out there and chat with everyone, they must be terribly confused. "

"Good idea. And _girl_ things?! What in the world-"

And that's his cue to leave. Percival stocks away from the bathroom back into the crowded bar. He sits back down across from Whitehall and promptly downs the rest of his drink in one go.

Whitehall's eyes bug out. "Thirsty, Graves?"

"Just been a while since I've had a good drink. I'm learning to appreciate it again."

Whitehall laughs. "I get that. "

A minute later, Tina and Queenie return to the table. Tina glides back into her seat with grace, ruby red lipstick coating her lips. Queenie played this well. For all intents and purposes, they really do look as though they've been doing nothing but putting on makeup in the washroom.

Percival would almost be proud if it weren't for the feeling of wretchedness staining his heart. There's only one logical explanation as to why Scamander would be afraid of him; and it's clear that Grindelwald's interference is the cause. It's like Percival came back into his life and the dark wizard's taint stains everything that was once pristine. There's no escaping the mess he left in his wake and especially no forgetting. Percival can't go an hour without thinking back into the dark room he'd been trapped in for a month.

He's halfway through his third drink when he notices his hands shaking again. And he knows it isn't panic.

"I should get going," he says, standing up.

"What? You haven't even been here an hour!" Whitehall states.

"I know, and I'm sorry. I'm not feeling all that great anymore." All eyes are on him at the table now, pouring into him and he hates it. But he must bear it. If he is to recover his previous standing, he must treat all of them with respect and act as though nothing is off. "I'm still recovering. Sometimes I get tired easily, but the healer said that it will pass in time. I'm sorry to cut this short. Next time, I hope I'll be able to stay longer. "

Faces morph into sympathy. He hates their pity falling onto him, but it's a good cover. Especially because it's bathed in partial truth.

"Feel better then," Clearwater says. There is a resounding course of people wishing him well and it almost drowns out the empty pit in his stomach and the shaking of his hands.

\- ❊ -

All day he's been shaky, it's nearly a full body shake. His eyes close against his will constantly whenever he sits at his desk, leaving him grasping and clawing for enough energy to pay attention to paperwork. He knows he should eat something but he's simply too busy to bother. Not even coffee is enough to keep him awake and alert. There's that, and whenever he stands star-like dots blot out his vision and he has to stand for a minute before they go away and he can gather his bearings again.

Instead, because his mind is so unfocused and out of control, he reign himself in. He just keeps thinking that about Scamander and gets that horrible feeling in his stomach, the one that just won't go away, making him feel panicked and sick.

After two hours, he finds his head in his hands, the clock ticks a whole ten minutes past when he last left and he can't take it anymore. He has to ask Tina about this. The most she'll do is turn him down and refuse to answer his question.

He stands, grabs onto his desk for support as his ears ring and the world around him goes out. He wobbles and grasps onto the desk harder before the world finally becomes clear again. He’s sure Picquery won't appreciate him mistreating his health. She's already given him shit about it before.

He breathes out deeply and grabs his coat, wrapping it around his shoulders and strides out his office. Tina's office isn't too far away thankfully, just a stairway and a couple halls. A four minute walk at most.

Along the way he doesn't bother to smile at anyone. He's too tired for it. A sinking feeling in his stomach grows stronger the more he ignores others, ignoring his resolve to himself the day he was let out of the hospital. He will never allow himself to become distant again. Ever. Nobody realized he was gone because he had become so impersonal, so wrapped up in his work, that nobody knew him, and in return, he didn't know them.

Yet again, Tina's door to her office is open. Percival pokes his head in only for his eyes to widen. He stands still for a moment standing in the doorway when his vision waivers again.

"Mr. Scamander?"

Said man twirls around, eyes blown open and blinking rapidly.

Percival supposes this is his chance. He leaves the door open behind him and steps inside, noticing the way Scamander take small steps backwards.

"You've been avoiding me.” He gives Scamander little time to defend himself.

Scamander's breaths come in shorts bursts. "I'm sorry, but I have this thing- I have to get going. Sorry."

Scamander strides forward but Percival holds out a sturdy arm, blocking him from the doorway. He jumps back as if Percival's arm is on fire and he's scared of being burnt, every inch of his body language telling Percival he's terrified. But all Percival needs is a minute to ask him _why._

He brings his arm back to his side, stepping in front of the doorway. Those static-like stars erupt across his vision again and he thinks he’s swaying, but isn't entirely sure. He blinks a couple of times, his vision clearing and showing Scamander deliberately breathing in and out slowly.

"Why are you avoiding me?"

Scamander closes his eyes. "I'm— I'm not." He draws his wand. Percival startles. He's not known Scamander to be a violent man — or at least to have the reputation of one — but a cornered animal is one that'll take desperate measures. Unless–

He doesn't know of the anti-apparition wards.

"Wait!" Percival takes a step forward and the stars are back again, along with a fog that blankets his mind. "Don't..." he takes a deep breath in, like he can't get enough. "Don't Apparate." His vision won't return to normal. It's then he realizes it's not simply just hunger. The last thought he has is of the anxiety shot through him before he promptly passes out.

\- ❊ -

Newt is left open-mouthed and short of breath as he holds Percival Graves' limp body in his arms, having just seconds earlier saved the man from a potentially deadly run-in from his head hitting Tina's desk. His brain races a thousand miles a second. Just what, exactly, is he supposed to do now? His breath is out of control, his chest a tight cage of anxiety, and he's a hair's breadth away from a full blown panic attack due to the man unconscious in his arms.

He closes his eyes, hating the hotness that comes to them as he counts to ten, trying to take back the reins of his wayward mind. He'd never been one to feel the constricting feeling of anxiety prior to the battle in the no-maj station. Now, whenever he closes his eyes, lighting flashes in the darkness of his mind, sending his heart racing.

When he opens his eyes, there's just orange-tinged lighting from the lamps on Tina's desk and Graves' steady breathing.

Newt counts to ten very slowly then gently extricates himself from beneath Graves' head where it rests on his lap. He's here, just flesh and blood, body completely harmless. Just solid and motionless. Vulnerable.

 _He's not Grindelwald_ , Newt tells himself for what feels like the thousandth time, knowing it makes no difference to the part of his brain that tells him to run at a glimpse of a dark-hewn undercut.

It's then his more rational part of his brain kicks in. Graves just _fainted_. His skin is pale and he'd seemed short of breath earlier.

Newt stands at the same time he hears steps enclosing on Tina's office. He's just gathering his bearing when Tina appears in the doorway, smile melting off her face as she takes on a look of horror upon noticing Graves lying face up on the carpeted floor.

"Mercy Lewis! Newt...? Did you—"

"Merlin, no!"

"What happened? Is he okay? We have to call a healer immediately!"

"H-he— I tried to leave and he stepped forward to stop me and fainted. He seemed short of breath. I stopped him from hitting his head. I— I don't know why it happened."

Tina's wand is already in her hands before he finished his explanation, and a note from her desk goes whizzing by his head out the door to presumably fetch a healer. She then rushes in the office, kneeling at Graves' side. Her hand goes to his pulse before drawing back a few seconds after. She leans over his face for a minute after which she gives a sigh.

"Pulse is fine, but his breathing is a little stutter-y. I don't know why. Does he look pale to you?"

Newt nods, almost wanting to avoid looking at the man for the fear of sparking up another shot of anxiety. He risks a glance anyway and feels nothing. Graves' face is drawn and severe, even in his unconscious state. His heavy brows are almost pulled together. Yet it's his dark and long lashes fanned over pale skin that draws Newt's attention. A couple of his hairs have escaped from his severe style making him want to reach out and brush them back against his better conscience.

"Are you okay?" Tina asks, drawing Newt's attention away from Graves' features. Tina's eyes sparkle with concern, touching him with warmth. It's still quite a novel and wonderful experience to have friends who care for him like so.

"Better now." He says, glad he means the words.

"Good." She looks like she wants to say more but a rush of footsteps come from outside, bringing with them, the healers. Newt allows Tina to tell them what happened and answers their questions as they examine Graves and carry him away.

Something heavy weighs upon him as he watches them go. Graves is just as much, if not more, a victim of Grindelwald. Newt didn't want to avoid the man. It was just, well. He couldn't exactly control the fear that blanketed him upon seeing him. Until now, perhaps.

Maybe, Newt hopes, the nightmares won't leave him gasping upon waking up anymore.

\- ❊ -

When Tina comes home from MACUSA around dinner, she brings news with her.

"Heard about Mister Graves earlier," Queenie says as they sit around the table. "Hope he's okay."

"He'll be fine. Nothing life-threatening. He's already been released from the medical ward."

Relief curls around Newt, allowing him to relax a tension in his shoulders he hadn't been aware he'd been carrying. "Did they say why he fainted?" He can't help but ask.

"No. Patient confidentiality and all that. Besides, I doubt he'll tell us himself."

"I'm glad he's alright. He's always been a bit distant, aloof even, but nobody deserves what happened to him," Queenie says.

Rumour has it he spent an entire month locked in a dark cellar, no human contact nor comfort provided to him. Yet he doesn't jump at shadows or become short of breath like Newt does. And here Newt has been avoiding the man at every turn like he was the devil.

"Where does he live?"

Tina nearly drops her fork and Queenie raises an eyebrow. He knows it's a weird question and that they're aware of his fear of Graves; it's never been acknowledged aloud, but he's sure they can tell.

"Why?" Tina finally asks, setting her fork down.

"I want to go apologize to him."

"You sure about that, honey? You're not still..." Queenie trails off, worrying her lip with her teeth.

Thing is, Newt doesn't know if seeing the man up and walking will trigger anxiety within him again. But he's never been one to turn something down because he's scared. He's sure he can withstand a five minute visit with Graves to apologize.

"I-I don't know. Maybe. But I feel I owe him an explanation regardless."

"Newt, it isn't your fault you feel this way."

Maybe so. Even still, he at least wants Graves to be aware of this avoidance, seeing as he'd been so avid to find out earlier.

"Please, I want to do this."

Tina's eyes soften. "Okay. I can apparate you there tomorrow if you really want. Can't say if he'll actually be there to answer the door or not, but it's worth a try."

Newt smiles. "Thank you."

Later that night there are no dreams that come to him. Just the oblivion of sleep.

\- ❊ -

It's a beautiful day, Newt remarks to himself. Mostly to distract himself from the low buzzing of anxiety just beneath the surface. There's hardly a breeze, his skin is warmed by the sun's rays and multitudes of chirping comes from the trees surrounding the Graves estate. Newt adjusts his collar as he takes in the columns in front of the house and iron gate surrounding.

"You're sure about this?" Tina asks for the hundredth time.

He almost wants to say he isn't, but he's already here, so he might as well go meet Graves. "I'll be okay. I'll leave if I have to."

"Okay. Good luck then." Tina says, then Apparates away leaving Newt with just the birds and leaves gently rustling.

Newt takes in a shaky breath and squares his shoulders. If he finds himself panicking when he's face-to-face with Graves, he can always just give a quick explanation and leave. That isn't the ideal, but it's an out if he needs it.

With his mind made up, he pushes the iron gate open, gritting his teeth at the loud squeal that comes from them as they swing outward. They close behind Newt with a resounding clang. The path toward the house is cobblestone, puddles and slush dotting it, making splashes as Newt makes his way to the home. The house itself is covered in ivy and overgrown hedges speaking of better days. Perhaps Graves hasn't had the time to get someone to trim them since his return.

It's the front door, however, that gives Newt pause. Tall and covered in black paint, it looks as if it's saying 'go away.'

Another deep breath and Newt makes to knock on the door. But it swings open before he can, causing him to jolt. Graves stands in the doorway, face openly curious. "Mr. Scamander?" He asks.

"I–"

He's wearing casual wear instead of his usual three-piece suits. Even his hair isn't as rigidly styled as usual. It's... comforting. Not quite enough to calm Newt's pounding heart, yet enough to not send him running.

Graves clears his throat.

"Right, I– um. I've realized I've been quite rude to you as of late. I wanted to apologize and give you an explanation for my behaviour."

Graves takes in the words then opens the door and steps inside. "Please, come in."

Newt follows him, only allowing a moment of hesitation before stepping over the threshold.

"I haven't tidied the house in a while, I hope you don't mind." Graves says, leading Newt through a hallway decorated with paintings, all of which feature men and women with the same dark hair as Graves.

"I don't mind at all. My home is hardly spotless."

Graves gives a small laugh. Something in Newt's chest uncoils slightly. "I should've expected that from a man who owns as many creatures as you."

Newt's not sure how to respond to that so he lets their small-talk turn to silence. Graves brings them to a sitting room. "Would you like anything to drink?"

He shakes his head even though water would be nice; he doesn't want to give the impression this'll be a long visit.

"Are you feeling better?" Newt asks, taking a seat on one of the couches. Graves sits across from him.

"Much, yes."

Newt tries not to feel disappointed Graves doesn't elaborate. But he supposes it's none of his business as to why Graves fainted.

"Well," Newt starts. He tries to keep eye contact with Graves and quickly finds it's too much, then switching his gaze to the corner of the couch instead. "You're aware I've been avoiding you. I just wanted to tell you why. It's nothing you've done, or anything you could help. It's just that — when I close my eyes, sometimes I can't get the sight of _him_ torturing me in the subway out of my mind. It didn't bother me at first, but on my journey home I started to have these horrible nightmares I'd wake up gasping from. It got worse and worse. And then– then I bumped into you outside of Tina's office and I felt nothing but panic."

Newt risks looking back. Graves' expression has morphed into one of quiet concern, one that's encouraging enough for him to continue.

"I know you're not him. I know that. But it's like some part of me isn't aware you're you. Like it can't separate the two out and I get panicked. It wasn't until you fainted that it sort of clicked. But-but even now..." he doesn't know if he wants to say this. "My heart is pounding quicker than usual. But I think it's getting better. I'm sorry I didn't try to explain this to you. It just seemed so silly and I was too scared. I've never had to deal with something like this before."

Graves gives a bit of a smile. "You don't have to be sorry. I understand."

Newt's eyebrows draw together. "You do?"

"Mm. At night, I can't sleep without a light on like a child afraid of monsters. I despise doors being shut closed like I believe they'll never open again. It's irrational, yes. But that's what trauma does to us. It isn't sensible – it's why so many have returned from the horrors of war not themselves."

Graves' words wash over him like a warm balm, almost assuring. To find his own problems mirrored in a strong and confident man like him reaffirms that it's okay he feels this way. It isn't his fault and it's not something he could help if he tried.

"I'll admit," Graves continues, "I thought you disliked me and wanted nothing to do with me."

Newt can't help but let out a little laugh. "No. I hardly know you. You've given me no reason not to like you so far."

"I'm glad."

It's then he notices his heart has stopped racing. Maybe it still beats a bit quickly, but that undercurrent of anxiety he always feels running through him is absent.

"Thank you, Mr. Graves," he says.

Graves' eyebrows raise. "For what?"

Newt's face heats a little. "For letting me explain myself to you. And for telling me about your own fears. My heart isn't beating as fast anymore."

Graves stands and Newt follows his lead. Something about the man's face is closed off, but the look is gone as quickly as it came. "It's quite alright. I'm happy you took it upon yourself to come explain. It was brave of you to come face a fear."

Newt smiles, feeling infinitely lighter from this visit. He allows Graves to lead him back to the entryway. When he turns to say goodbye, his eyes catch on Graves' face, which is well lit from the window above. There are dark circles under his eyes.

"Are you sleeping well?" Newt blurts out. He wants to take the words back instantly. Graves' face takes on that closed look again.

"There's work I have to get back to, Mr. Scamander," he says, opening the door. "Have a good day."

Newt holds an apology on the tip of his tongue but knows Graves won't appreciate it. Instead, he says goodbye in turn and leaves without protest, left wondering where exactly he went wrong as the door clicks shut behind him.

\- ❊ -

Opening up to Scamander like that had been an idiotic mistake. Quickly after admitting to his fears, Percival felt that clawing feeling of vulnerability permeate, making him want to take back every fear he confessed. _Never show weakness, never let anyone be able to tear you apart_ , Percival's father told him when he'd become an auror. _Weakness opens your defences. It's a chink in your armour allies and enemies alike will exploit._

He knows that way of thinking is faulty. Just look what pushing people away garnered with Grindelwald. Yet he can't help the way he thinks; he's trying to undo this belief system that's been instilled in him since he was nineteen, but someone might as well tell him to peel back his skin and show his heart like it's nothing.

"Fuck," he says aloud, slumping against the door. Progress is very slow coming indeed. The least he could've done is lied to Scamander. Told him yes, he's getting a perfect amount of sleep and then send him packing.

At the very least, he now knows Scamander's reasoning for avoiding him. He'd guessed at it earlier and now knows he's correct. At least Scamander's trauma is healing. In that, at least, he finds solace.

\- ❊ -

Picquery is worried about him. She may not know why he'd passed out, but it doesn't stop her from asking and trying to strong-arm him into taking taking better care of himself. He won't admit to her he'd passed out due to sheer exhaustion — not enough sleep and not enough food. He doesn't want another embarrassing incident in which he's taken to the healer and given a million get better messages again, so he agrees to take more care of himself. Besides, that's one chink in his proverbial armour no one needs to know about.

He does, however, tell Picquery about his tremors. She'd find out eventually. They're entirely unrelated to the fainting incident and are noticeable if one looks hard enough. He'd told the healers about them, thinking them related to him passing out, but they're not. It's something that just happens or may be brought on with age. It's a specific condition that needs more research. Originally, Percival had been shot-through with fear, thinking they'd get worse and lead to death but the healer refuted that point. It won't intensify and he can carry on with life as normal, save for perhaps a bit more care when it comes to writing neatly.

After that, life continues on as normally as can be post-capture. He continues working on getting to know his aurors and letting them know more about him in return, creating a fulfilling feeling in his chest.

At the end of the week, he's invited to a party at Clearwater's to celebrate spring. It's a silly reason to host a get-together and he's well aware it's an excuse, but he accepts nonetheless. He's told to bring friends or a significant other but has neither - so he shows up alone.

It's freshly dark, Clearwater's country home lit by lamps and electricity inside, a warm glow coming from the windows. Inside he's welcomed with faces that are a little less surprised to see him this time and is then quickly shepherded to the bar where there's a hired mixologist. He counts himself impressed as he looks over labels of expensive wines. Clearwater's family is old money — he'd been aware of that. Just not to this extent.

"Graves," Someone calls.

He looks behind him to see Tina accompanied by Queenie, a glass of wine in both their hands.

"Tina, Queenie," he greets.

"I'm glad to see you here." Tina smiles. Beside her, Queenie beams.

They talk about a recent case for a few minutes until Queenie likely gets bored by all the auror talk and stalks off to somewhere else. Tina and Percival too, tire of it, eventually finding other people to speak to. It isn't until Percival crosses into a hallway he notices someone out on the balcony, auburn hair whipping about in the breeze.

Scamander.

Too curious to keep walking, Percival opens the door to outside, shivering as the chilly night air reaches him. He'd long ago taken off his coat and a collared dress shirt and vest is hardly enough to ward off the wind. Scamander hasn't moved. He holds onto the railing and continues looking down.

"Mr. Scamander?"

The man jumps, turns around, and relaxes slightly. "Just Newt, please."

"Newt, then. What are you doing out here?" There's no drink in his hand and no alcohol to warm his body from the night.

"I was thinking." He lets silence pass between them for a couple seconds. "About what you said about trauma. How it's irrational."

Percival tenses, forcing himself not to look around to see if anyone is nearby. He left the door open just a crack, and they're unlikely to be heard over the chatter and laughter inside, but he can't help it. He steps closer to Newt taking in the scars on his hands and the way the moonlight illuminates his curly hair — so free and unruly compared to every other man in New York's undercuts. It suits him, Percival thinks.

But. "This is hardly the time to be thinking about things such as that, hmm?"

"You left the door open," Newt observes. Percival's stomach drops out from under him. "It's not something we can avoid." He turns back to the view off the railing. "I still have the dreams. About being tortured with electricity. I haven't been cured like I hoped. B-but it isn't your face I see anymore. It's his."

Percival tightens his grip on his wine glass. "Are you alright?" He asks. This pensive brooding hardly seems Scamander's style. Though drinking alcohol and socializing with everyone inside doesn't seem it either.

"Fine," Newt says tightly. "Better than I had been when I first came back to New York."

"Why are you here, if I may ask?"

"I needed a break from life back home. Ridicule from family and nightmares that haunted me during the daytime aren't a good mix. So I took some of my creatures and came to visit Tina and Queenie."

Percival shifts about and takes a sip from his glass. He opened a line, a _connection_ , with Newt when he opened up about his fears. Cutting that line feels cruel, and there's still the matter of him having kicked Newt out of his home when he inquired if he'd been sleeping well. "Would you want to go on a walk?" He asks. They won't be missed from this party, and Percival would like to not want to look over his shoulder every minute.

"A walk?" Newt asks, turning around again.

Percival nods. "Just for a chat. There's a park nearby that's well-lit at night."

"Without a coat?"

"I'll be alright." He holds out a hand. "I'll apparate us there?"

Newt looks at the proffered hand, then grasps it tightly in his own. His palm is warm and textured. Scarred. Percival draws his wand, envisions the pond at the center of the park and then they're gone.

\- ❊ -

It's quiet. But the type of quiet that's calm instead of unsettling. Newt's presence at his side is reassuring against the dark. In front of them is the pond Percival envisioned, frozen still, but there are pools of water gathered at the surface. The path around it, at least, is cleared.

Percival starts walking, Newt's footsteps making crunching sounds behind him.

"I wanted to apologize for my behaviour at the end of your visit. It was rude of me."

"Yes, but I asked something too personal."

"Still, I could've been kinder about it. I'm still..." there's a precipice he can jump off here, if he wishes. He can tell Newt his dilemma he's been battling since he returned to his job, or he can be silent. Be strong. That's the easy route. Yet, Newt's been so accepting. So kind and caring. He shares part of Percival's plight.

And Percival's so tired of being alone.

"I'm still trying to let others in," he admits. "So to answer your question, I haven't been sleeping well. I have nightmares too. Of a different sort than yours, but I have them nonetheless."

Newt's footsteps stop. Percival stills and turns around. "Newt?"

"You're a very good man, you know that?"

"What?"

"You care a lot. You just have trouble showing it."

Percival lets out a laugh, a smile gracing his face against his will. "And you're odd. Unlike anyone I've ever met. _You're_ the one who noticed Grindelwald wasn't me."

A street lamp illuminates Newt's face giving him a warm glow. There's something about him that's just so foreign and distant from Percival's rigid life that draws him in. He can't help but walk closer, eyes roaming Newt's freckled face. It's when they're a hairsbreadth apart the first raindrop hits his shoulder. Heavy, wet, and cold. Then another hits his forehead. And another, and another, _and another_.

The sky breaks out into a full pour, soaking through Percival's shirt, his skin breaking out into goosebumps.

It's Newt who breaks out into a laugh first, earning a grudging smile from Percival. They stand only a step away from each other, and it's Newt who puts a hand behind Percival's head, his eyes never leaving Percival's, leaning in hesitantly, almost painfully slow, until their lips connect, warm and wet from the rain, and Newt's eyes flutter shut. Newt's thumb runs over Percival's short hairs at the back of his head, the kiss lingering until Newt draws away leaving Percival alone in the cold rain. Newt watches him with wide and vulnerable eyes.

"This is the first rain this year," Percival inexplicably states.

Newt gives a disbelieving laugh, eyes still not leaving Percival's. "It is?"

Percival nods, feeling light and warm despite the downpour around them. They're finally free from winter's grasp - and it's like freedom from something else too. Loneliness, perhaps.

He holds out his hand, wanting to be connected to Newt again.

"It's cold, and I'm not wearing a coat. To my place?"

Newt's eyes widen at the offer but he takes Percival's hand anyway.

\- ❊ -

Inside is warm. Their clothes come off in pieces, soaking wherever they land. Goosebumps cover them from head to toe, but once they make it to the bed their body heat and movements are enough to ward them off. It's over quite quickly, really, but it's been a while for Percival, and he suspects Newt is in the same boat, so it doesn't come as a surprise. That's not to say it wasn't good.

Intimacy is not a well-known friend to Percival. To be able to touch and run his hands over Newt's body freely is an opportunity he cherishes, it's freeing and euphoric.

When they're finished and panting, Newt lies still for a minute, then lifts the covers off himself. He begins to collect his discarded clothes, causing Percival to sit up and frown. "You're leaving?"

"I– I thought you'd want me to."

"What? No. Please, come to bed."

Newt drops the clothes to the floor in a crumpled pile, climbing back under the covers. Heat exudes from his body and Percival pulls him closer. The lamp at the bedside is still on but Newt doesn't make a complaint, he just buries his face in Percival's shoulder, his damp hair tickling his face.

"I'm glad you let me in," he says.

"Me too."

It won't be easy for them. Later in the night, Newt suffers from a nightmare, his gasps and twitching waking Percival from an already tentative grasp on sleep. In the morning a sunny day greets them as well as an awkwardness that hadn't been present the night before. At times, Percival will remain distant. Duty will call them away from each other - in both physical and emotional distance.

But the connection they share doesn't leave. Every time it rains, Percival's reminded of Newt.

And in the end, that's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Please, please comment if you enjoyed! Comments mean the world to me <3
> 
> Follow me on tumblr [bastila-s](https://bastila-s.tumblr.com/)


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